Stephen King - Dreamcatcher

You have no business doing this in the first place, Owen told him. The thought came to Henry encrusted with a complex filigree of emotion: frustration, guilt, the inevitable fear-in Owen Underhill’s case, not of dying but of failure. If what you say is true, everything depends on whether or not we get out of here clean. For you to maybe put the entire world at risk because of a few hundred schmoes in a barn…

It’s not the way your boss would do it, right?

Owen reacted with surprise-no words, but a kind of comicbook !in Henry’s mind. Then, even over the ceaseless howl and hoot of the wind, he heard Owen laugh.

You got me there, beautiful.

Anyway, I’ll get them moving. I’m a motivational master.

I know you’ll try. Henry couldn’t see Owen’s face, but felt him smiling. Then Owen spoke aloud. “And after that? Tell me again.”

“ Why?”

“Maybe because soldiers need motivation, too, especially when they’re derailing. And belay the telepathy-I want you to say it out loud. I want to hear the word.”

Henry looked at the man shivering on the other side of the fence and said, “After that we’re going to be heroes. Not because we want to, but because there are no other options.”

Out in the snow and the wind, Owen was nodding. Nodding and still smiling. “Why not?” he said. “Just why the fuck not?”

In his mind, glimmering, Henry saw the image of a little boy with a plate raised over his head. What the man wanted was for the little boy to put the plate back-that plate that had haunted him so over the years and would forever stay broken.

Dreamless since childhood and thus unsane, Kurtz woke as he always did: at one moment nowhere, at the next completely awake and cognizant of his surroundings. Alive, hallelujah, oh yes, still in the big time. He turned his head and looked at the clock, but the goddam thing had gone off again in spite of its fancy anti-magnetic casing, flashing 12-12-12, like a stutterer caught on one word. He turned on the lamp beside the bed and picked up the pocket watch on the bedtable. Four-oh-eight.

Kurtz put it down again, swung his bare feet out on to the floor, and stood up. The first thing he became aware of was the wind, still howling like a woe-dog. The second was that the faraway mutter of voices in his head had disappeared entirely. The telepathy was gone and Kurtz was glad. It had offended him in an elemental, down-deep way, as certain sexual practices offended him. The idea that someone might be able to come into his very head, to be able to visit the upper levels of his mind… that had been horrible. The grayboys deserved to be wiped out for that alone, for bringing that disgustingly peculiar gift. Thank God it had proved ephemeral.

Kurtz shucked his gray workout shorts and stood naked in front of the mirror on the bedroom door, letting his eyes go up from his feet (where the first snarls of purple veins were beginning to show) to the crown of his head, where his graying hair stood up in a sleep-tousle. He was sixty, but not looking too bad; those busted veins on the sides of his feet were the worst of it. Had a bell of a good crank on him, too, although he had never made much use of it; women were, for the most part, vile creatures incapable of loyalty. They drained a man. In his secret unsane heart, where even his madness was starched and pressed and fundamentally not very interesting, Kurtz believed all sex was FUBAR. Even when it was done for procreation, the result was usually a brain-equipped tumor not much different from the shit-weasels.

From the crown of his head, Kurtz let his eyes descend again, slowly, looking for the least patch of red, the tiniest roseola blush. There was nothing. He turned around, looked at as much as he could see by craning back over his shoulder, and still saw nothing. He spread his buttocks, probed between them, slid a finger two knuckles deep into his anus, and felt nothing but flesh.

“I’m clean,” he said in a low voice as he washed his hands briskly in the Winnebago’s little bathroom. “Clean as a whistle.”

He stepped into his shorts again, then sat on his rack to slip into his socks. Clean, praise God, clean. A good word. Clean. The unpleasant feel of the telepathy-like sweaty skin pressed against sweaty skin-was gone. He wasn’t supporting a single strand of Ripley; he had even checked his tongue and gums.

So what had awakened him? Why were there alarm bells clanging in his head?

Because telepathy wasn’t the only form of extrasensory perception. Because long before the grayboys knew there was such a place as Earth tucked away in this dusty and seldom-visited carrel of the great interstellar library, there had been a little thing called instinct, the specialty of uniform-wearing Homo saps such as himself.

“The hunch,” Kurtz said. “The good old all-American hunchola.”

He put on his pants. Then, still bare-chested, he picked up the walkie which lay on the bedtable beside the pocket watch (four-sixteen now, and how the time seemed to be rushing , like a brakeless car plunging down a hill toward a busy intersection). The walkie was a special digital job, encrypted and supposedly unjammable… but one look at his supposedly impervious digital clock made him realize none of the gear was un-anything.

He clicked the SEND/SQUEAL button twice. Freddy Johnson came back quickly and not sounding too sleepy… oh, but now that crunch time was here, how Kurtz (who had been born Robert Coonts, name, name, what’s in a name) longed for Underhill. Owen, Owen, he thought, why did you have to skid just when I needed you the most, son?

“Boss?”

“I’m moving Imperial Valley up to six. That’s Imperial Valley at oh-six-hundred, come back and acknowledge me.”

He had to listen to why it was impossible, crap Owen would not have spouted in his weakest dream. He gave Freddy roughly forty seconds to vent before saying, “Close your clam, you son of a bitch.”

Shocked silence from Freddy’s end.

“We’ve got something brewing here. I don’t know what, but it woke me up out of a sound sleep with the alarm bells ringing. Now I put all you fellows and girls together for a reason, and if you expect to be still drawing breath come suppertime, you want to get them moving. Tell Gallagher she may wind up on point. Acknowledge me, Freddy.”

“Boss, I acknowledge. One thing you should know-we’ve had four suicides that I know of There may have been more. “Kurtz was neither surprised nor displeased. Under certain circumstances, suicide wasn’t just acceptable, but noble-the true gentleman’s final act.

“From the choppers?”

“Affirmative.”

“No Imperial Valleys.”

“No, boss, no Valleys.”

“All right. Floor it, buck. We got trouble. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s coming. Big thunder.”

Kurtz tossed the walkie back on the table and continued dressing. He wanted another cigarette, but they were all gone.

A pretty good herd of milkers had once been stabled in Old Man Gosselin’s barn, and while the interior might not have passed USDA standards as it now stood, the building was still in okay shape. The soldiers had strung some high-wattage bulbs that cast a brilliant glare over the stalls, the milking stations in the parlor, and the upper and lower lofts. They had also put in a number of heaters, and the barn glowed with a pulsing, almost feverish warmth. Henry unzipped his coat as soon as he stepped in, but still felt the sweat break out on his face. He supposed Owen’s pills had something to do with that-he’d taken another outside the barn.